we only have what we remember
by HedwigBlack
Summary: "You smile sadly and offer your body as living proof that Azkaban was not kind to you. It's a story only he can read..." Post-Azkaban Wolfstar. For Paula.


For Paula, who writes the loveliest Wolfstar. (Seriously, why are you reading this when you can go read hers?) :) Wuv you, wifey!

* * *

"_I'm all made out of shipwrecks, every twisted beam,_

_lost and found like you and me, all scattered out on the sea._

_So come on, and let's wash each other with tears of joy and tears of grief_

_and fold our lives like crashing waves and run up on this beach._

_Come on and sew us together. We're just some tattered rags stained forever._

_We only have what we remember."_

**Wooden Heart- listener**

( www . youtube dot com /watch? v=K8k9rD7lx9c)

* * *

They say the body remembers everything.

It can recall every last emotional experience you've ever had, whether it leaves a scar on your skin or not. Because it goes so much deeper than that. Scars fade, and the mind forgets but the body stores everything you've ever felt in your bone marrow and the soft tissue surrounding your organs, just in case you ever need to be reminded how to feel again from the inside out. It collects moments- trauma, love, bitterness- like dust on a shelf where the books go unread. But every once in a while, someone comes along, and they uncover a title they've been missing for years.

Twelve years, to be exact.

Twelve years of waiting and crying and hoping and despairing. And loving; always loving.

After all this time, you find yourself in your old bedroom that hasn't been touched since the day you left. The Gryffindor hangings are still there, the photographs that speak of simpler times mock you from the walls, the curtains are weighed down with dust. There's a mirror, but you can't bear to look. It seems so surreal to even be here, and you marvel at how you always seem to end up right where you started from.

Only this time, you've got Remus in your sights and you refuse to let him go again. You've waited too long, and you've been counting the full moons until you could come find him and make him love you like he used to do, no matter how selfish it makes you sound. So now you stand before him in an old raggedy pair of sweatpants that have seen better days. It used to be that they would rest perfectly on your hips in such a way that would drive him insane, but now they are loose around your skeletal frame and you have to roll them up three times to keep them in place.

You smile sadly and offer your body as living proof that Azkaban was not kind to you. It's a story that only he can read, and you spread your arms wide, inviting him to survey the damage. Your skin is pulled taught over your rib cage, the tension has built up in the spaces between your vertebrae, you clench your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering because no matter what you do, you can't seem to get warm. And you wonder how it's possible for him to even recognize you. You wonder how he could even have it in him to still love you. And you've never felt so utterly exposed.

He cups your face in his hands, and it all comes rushing back to you, and you think 'they' might have been on to something when they said the body remembers everything. It's been over a decade for Merlin's sake, but his touch is still familiar. Only now he's being gentle because he's afraid he'll hurt you, and it really hits you just how much of a mess you truly are and how fragile you've become.

His fingers trace your collarbones, rediscovering everything he thought he'd lost. And he's reading that story you've been living like Braille beneath his fingers, finding all the plotholes with his name all over them. He highlights them with his lips and whispers vague dedications in your ear that no one will ever understand but the two of you. He scribbles love letters in the margins between your ribs, and you know if it is true that the body remembers everything, then in some ways it is both a curse and blessing. Because you're all fucked up, but it gives you hope that maybe Remus' kisses will cover over all the words you've misspelled. Perhaps if he says enough _I love you_s against your skin, the words will sink in like ink on the page, cancelling out all the pain that you keep bottled up. And perhaps, somehow, all the twists and turns that have led you here will make sense in the end because he was much better at story telling than you ever were anyway.

And maybe someday soon you'll figure out what it is the two of you are. Because you can't start over; at least, not from the beginning. And you can't pick up where you left off because it's just not that simple. There's too much shit that's happened, and there always seems to be a war going on that you can't just ignore.

But tonight, just for tonight, you dare to pretend that you can be seventeen again- to be young and reckless and stupidly in love with your best friend. Tonight, you are determined to shut everything else out and just be Padfoot and Moony making up for lost time.

Tonight, you'll rewrite all your endings and simply say '_to be continued_.'


End file.
